by Rochelle Soetan

In the Spirit of National Poetry Month
30th Anniversary

Note from a Poetry Editor: “This poem is a considerable think piece. It would be well-received as a contender for a mainstream publication and national submission. It could be utilized in academia or examined in a national forum. It’s just the right length, lies well, and has a direct relatability to what we are experiencing in the world right now. It is remarkable and, dare I say, reminiscent of Toni Morrison’s style, tonality, imagery, and marked with small nuances of magical realism. Soft but phenomenal.”

so many skies I have seen
slept under. prayed beneath.
my spine pressed to the front seat
my breath tucked under moonlight
when I had no roof but God,
when I was unhoused,
when I was undone and becoming—
these skies kept showing up.

I wanted to fly into them—
just one wing of an eagle
was all I asked.
I believed I could make it
one side stretched wide,
just enough to taste the clouds.
these skies, they loom—
with uncertainty. with attitude.
with laughter, grief,
and something like grace.
they speak language
that don’t need translation.
they tell stories about 1000 years of leaving,
of staying,
of surviving storms.
they beam sun so hot
you can fry an egg thrice
on a hood or a heartbreak.

these skies are—
my friend. my covering.
my altar and my baptism.
they bathe me in holiness
in clarity
in colors I ain’t never seen
except in the back of my eyelids
when I dream too loud.

I’ve seen clouds that cry,
weep for the ones who didn’t make it,
for the cardboard beds and rolled-up prayers.
clouds that hold birds and leaves, and
the last words of people
nobody checked on.
clouds that cradle planes
like babies rocked mid-flight
to somewhere safer.

these skies are fierce.
they burn with knowing.
I’ve seen them blaze,
cut through my nightmares
and kiss my face clean.

I’ve seen skies in every version of myself—
broken, risen, still raw.
felt wind slice through my silence,
gray gusts, white whispers,
blue backs with pink like spun sugar
sitting still—
like cars waiting for a light that won’t turn green.

these skies, they shift.
they mourn what I lost.
they celebrate what I found.
they hold the echoes of what left me,
and the courage of what stayed.

I am God with these skies.
not in power—
but in presence.
in stillness.
in the knowing.
they make me whole,
again and again.
I sit under their hush
and let the moon show out,
twisting like a ribbon,
waving like it loves me.

these skies—
so many skies
I have seen.

so many backdrops,
so many versions of myself reflected in the clouds.
they gave me both hope and heartache,
in the same breath.
they breathed into me,
then broke me open
just to show I could rise.

they clothed me in something soft
when the world went cold.
kissed my forehead
like a mother who never stopped waiting.

so many skies
I have seen during this stretch—
this duress,
this becoming,
this holy interruption.

these skies remind me:

I can fly.

I am loved.
I am weightless.
I am worthy.
I am still here.

and still—

so many more skies
I want to see.
want to fly.
want to kiss.

I am walking toward them now.
on my own feet.
with wings that grew
while I was sleeping

in cars

under stars.

Copyright © 2026. Rochelle Soetan, from an UNTITLED collection.